Burro di Arachidi

We think that

we’re romantic

since we dine in

candlelight—

here in our

apartment,

not just lunch

and dinner,

but with the

crack

of a free-range

egg ,

Skippy

in the holes

of morning crumpets,

melting like a cupcake

in the oven, Honeycomb

aglow

amid the milk,

all of which

reveal both love

and longing—

you with the

remembrance

of our London

honeymoon,

the bobby

with his night-

stick

at the ready,

lit by corner

streetlamps

on an evening

without gloom—

me with recollections

of our kisses,

our visit to Leoni’s

with the tablecloth

that beamed

with minted promise,

our vow to

recreate

that heated setting—

thrice daily—

when your lipstick

smeared my mouth

instead of gloop

from a plastic jar,

sitting in a shadow

by the toaster,

a knife lodged

in its sweet &

salty maw.

Andreas Gripp

November 28, 2024

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